Page 8 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

"Then we have different definitions of the word."

We're close enough now that I can see flecks of gold in her violet eyes. Close enough to grab her throat before her soldiers could react. Close enough to end this standoff with brutal efficiency.

Close enough to remember the way she smiled when she finished stitching my wounds.

"Last chance," she says. "Release my prisoner, or learn why mercenaries survive when noble warriors don't."

The challenge hangs in the air between us like smoke from a signal fire. Behind me, Darian Thorne whimpers softly, probably realizing his fate depends on a pissing contest between two stubborn killers.

She won't back down. Neither will I.

But those weapons...

I think about poison-tipped bolts punching through Ironspine armor. About liquid fire burning through clan defenses. About my brother's grave marker standing lonely in the memorial grounds.

More Ironspine warriors will die if she delivers those weapons.

But starting a war here means Ironspine warriors die today.

The choice crystallizes with brutal clarity: immediate casualties versus future ones. Known losses versus potential threats.

Command decisions. The kind that leaves scars whether you choose right or wrong.

"You have ten seconds to reconsider," she continues. "After that, this gets messy."

I study her face, looking for any sign of bluff or hesitation. Find none.

She means it. Every word.

Which means I need to decide what I'm willing to die for, and what I'm willing to kill for.

Ten seconds.

Nine.

Eight.

Seven.

Six.

Five.

The ground shudders beneath my boots like the earth itself objects to our standoff. Dust cascades from overhead beams with the sound of grinding stone.

Four.

A low rumble builds in the ruins, vibrating through bone and sinew. The sound that precedes avalanches and building collapses.

Three.

"What—" Ressa begins.

The western wall explodes inward.

Not metaphorically. Not gradually. The ancient stonework simply disintegrates in a thunderous cascade of limestone blocks and mortar dust. Where moments before stood a barrier twenty feet high and three feet thick, now gapes a wound bleeding rubble and choking clouds of pulverized rock.

I dive left as a chunk of masonry as a war-axe whistles past my head. Ressa rolls right, her soldiers scattering like startled ravens. The careful positioning of our standoff dissolves into pure survival instinct.

Move. Think later.

Another section of wall tilts inward with the grinding inevitability of geological time compressed into seconds. Support beams crack like breaking bones. Overhead, the remaining roof structure sags under redistributed weight.

"The prisoner!" Ressa shouts over the growing roar of structural collapse.

Darian Thorne screams as debris rains around the interrogation post. A limestone block as large as a barrel crashes down three feet from where he's bound, sending up a geyser of dust and stone fragments.

Shit.

I sprint toward him through falling masonry, dodging chunks of architecture that would crush a skull like an egg. Behind me, Ressa moves with the same desperate efficiency, her blade clearing smaller debris from our path.

Enemy or not, we need him alive.

"Cut the restraints!" I bellow.

"Already on it!"

Her knife parts the ropes with surgical precision while I grab Thorne under both arms. The man weighs more than expected—too much rich food and not enough honest labor—but adrenaline makes us all stronger.

"Move! Move!"

We drag him clear just as another section of wall buckles and crashes exactly where he'd been tied. The impact sends shock waves through the courtyard that I feel in my teeth.

Close. Too close.

But the collapse contines. What started as a localized failure spreads like infection through the ruins' structural skeleton. Load-bearing walls that survived centuries of weather and warfare finally surrender to the accumulated stress of time and poor maintenance.

"There!" Ressa points toward what remains of the main gate. "That's the only exit still clear!"

She's right. The other approaches are blocked by fresh rubble or threatened by walls that lean at angles physics shouldn't allow. But between us and safety lies thirty yards of chaos where death falls from the sky in limestone chunks.

Standard tactical problem. Crossing a kill zone under fire.

Except the fire is gravity and ancient architecture instead of arrows and spears.

"My men—" one of her soldiers starts.

"Dead or scattered," she cuts him off with brutal honesty. "We save who we can save."

Practical. Ruthless. Smart.

I respect her for it even as I despise what she represents.

Thorne tries to stand and immediately collapses. His left leg bends at an angle that suggests broken bones and torn ligaments. Blood seeps through torn fabric where sharp stone found soft flesh.

"Can't walk," he gasps. "Can't?—"

"You'll walk or we'll leave you," Ressa informs him with matter-of-fact cruelty. "Choose."

She means it.

But when he struggles to his feet and immediately crumples again, she doesn't abandon him. Instead, she loops his arm over her shoulder and prepares to carry his weight.

Contradiction. She threatens abandonment but won't actually do it.

Interesting.

"Take his other side," she orders me.

"He's your prisoner."

"He's information we both need alive."

Another wall section shudders and drops in a cascade of dust and broken stone. The sound echoes off remaining structures like thunder in a narrow valley.

She's right. Dead smugglers tell no secrets.

I grab Thorne's right arm and help support his weight. Together, we begin the nightmare journey toward the gate through air thick with choking dust and the constant threat of death from above.

Trust her enough to share the burden. Don't trust her enough to turn your back.

Complicated.

Three steps. Five. Ten.

A huge block crashes down between us and safety, breaking into smaller chunks that ricochet like shrapnel. One piece catches Ressa across the shoulder, spinning her halfway around. She keeps her grip on Thorne but staggers under the impact.

Blood on her sleeve. Not serious but painful.

"You're hit."

"I'm functional."

No complaint. No dramatic reaction. Just assessment and continuation.

Professional.

We push forward through the maelstrom of falling architecture.

Every step requires split-second decisions about which path offers the least probability of sudden death.

Dodge left around a tilting column. Sprint right to avoid a cascade of loose stones.

Stop completely as an entire section of roof crashes down ahead of us.

Like navigating a battlefield where the enemy is physics itself.

Thorne whimpers constantly, a stream of fear-soaked babble about broken bones and internal injuries and wanting to see his family again. Neither Ressa nor I waste breath on reassurance or comfort. Survival requires focus.

Save the sympathy for after we escape.

Fifteen yards from the gate. A navigable distance under normal circumstances. An eternity when measured in falling masonry and structural collapse.

The remaining roof groans overhead like some massive beast in its death throes. Dust falls in thick curtains that turn breathing into a conscious effort. Through the haze, I glimpse other figures moving. Ressa's scattered soldiers attempting their own escapes through the chaos.

Some will make it. Some won't. Nothing we can do about it now.

"There!" She points toward a gap between two fallen blocks. "We can squeeze through there!"

I study the route she's indicated. Narrow but passable, assuming the precarious balance of debris overhead doesn't shift while we're underneath.

Risk versus reward. Stay here and die slowly. Try the gap and maybe die quickly.

Easy choice.

"Go."

We maneuver Thorne through the opening with careful haste, his injured leg dragging uselessly behind him. The space is tighter than it appeared from a distance. We have to turn sideways and duck beneath a granite lintel that hangs supported by luck and the friction of stone against stone.

Don't breathe too hard. Don't jostle anything. Don't think about the tons of rock balanced over your head.

Halfway through, the structure shifts.

Just slightly. Just enough to make the lintel drop another inch and compress our escape route into something barely wide enough for a single person.

Stuck.

Thorne's bulk fills the narrowed opening like a cork in a bottle. Behind us, the way we came disappears under fresh debris. Ahead, freedom beckons through a gap we can no longer fit through.

Perfect.

"Back up," Ressa orders.

"Can't. Exit's blocked."

She cranes her neck to confirm what I already know. The route we used to reach this position no longer exists.

Forward or nowhere.

"Can we widen the gap?"

I examine the precariously balanced stones above us. One supports another, which supports a third, in a delicate architecture of mutual dependence. Disturbing any element might bring the entire arrangement down on our heads.

Or it might give us the clearance we need.

Calculated risk.

"Maybe. If we're smart about it."

"Define smart."

I point to a wedge-shaped chunk of limestone that acts as a keystone for the current configuration. "Remove that piece carefully, the lintel drops but the weight redistributes to the side supports. Should give us another six inches of clearance."

"Should?"

"Nothing's certain when you're playing games with gravity."

She studies the stone I've indicated, then looks at Thorne's semiconscious form, then back at the narrowed gap.

Measuring odds. Weighing probabilities.

"Do it."

I work my knife blade into the gap around the keystone, using the steel as a lever to gradually shift the rock's position. The technique requires patience—too much force too quickly, and the sudden movement triggers a cascade failure that crushes us all.

Gentle pressure. Steady progress. Don't rush.

The stone shifts. An inch. Two inches.

Overhead, the lintel groans and settles lower. But not catastrophically. The weight redistributes exactly as hoped, creating precious additional space in our escape route.

Sometimes physics cooperates.

"Now," I tell her.

We squeeze Thorne through the widened gap with desperate efficiency. His injured leg catches on a protrusion, and he screams, but we force him through, regardless. Broken bones heal. Crushed skulls don't.

Practical priorities.

Ressa follows, her lithe frame navigating the tight space with a dancer's grace despite her injured shoulder. I come last, feeling the structure shift ominously as my weight transfers from one support point to another.

Almost...

Almost...

Clear.

The ruins collapse behind us in a final crescendo of destruction. What had been the western quarter of Ember Hollow's ancient fortress becomes a mountain of rubble and dust. The sound echoes across the wasteland like thunder, rolling away into distance until only normal silence remains.

We made it.

Barely.

I lean against a intact wall section and check myself for injuries. Minor cuts from stone fragments. Bruised ribs from a glancing impact. Nothing serious enough to slow me down.

Beside me, Ressa examines her shoulder wound with clinical detachment. The gash isn't deep, but it bleeds steadily and will need cleaning to prevent infection.

She moves like it doesn't hurt. But it does.

Pain tolerance. Another professional skill.

Thorne lies between us, conscious but barely functional. He definitely broke his leg. The bone shows white through torn flesh. But he's breathing regularly and his eyes track movement, which suggests no serious head trauma.

He'll live. Whether he wants to or not.

"Your men?" I ask.

"Some escaped. Others didn't." She has no particular emotion about either outcome. "Occupational hazard."

Cold. But honest.

"Mine scattered when the walls came down. Standard protocol for structural collapse in hostile territory."

"Smart protocol."

We stand in the settling dust, breathing hard and evaluating our changed circumstances. The standoff that defined our relationship thirty minutes ago feels distant now, overwhelmed by shared survival and mutual dependence.

Enemies who cooperated. Rivals who saved each other's lives.

Complicated.

But the underlying conflict hasn't disappeared. Just been temporarily shelved by necessity.

"Your prisoner is still my prisoner," I inform her.

"He's still my asset," she counters.

"Asset?"

"He knows things I need to know. About my sister. About Bloodfang territory. About why they took her."

Sister.

The word hits with unexpected force. Personal stakes. Family bonds. The kind of motivation that drives people to desperate choices and dangerous alliances.

She's not just running weapons to enemies. She's trying to save family.

Changes everything. Changes nothing.

"Tell me about your sister."

"Why?"

"Because I need to understand why you're arming our enemies."

She considers this for a long moment, weighing the value of information against the cost of revelation.

"Lyanna Vaelmark. Seventeen years old. Captured by Bloodfang raiders two weeks ago during an attack on our family's border holdings."

"Ransom demand?"

"No. They took her for other reasons."

Other reasons.

In orc culture, young noblewomen serve specific purposes beyond simple ransom. Marriage alliances. Breeding stock for strengthening bloodlines. Sacrificial victims for religious ceremonies.

None of them pleasant.

"And you think armed negotiation will secure her release?"

"I think armed negotiation is the only thing Bloodfang orcs understand."

She's probably right about that.

"But arming them also makes them more dangerous to my clan."

"Your clan's safety isn't my priority. My sister's is."

Honest. Brutal. Completely reasonable from her perspective.

And completely unacceptable from mine.

I spit into the dust between us, the gesture carrying the formal rejection.

"We're not allies."